


Unsympathetic

by Hambone



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Gang Rape, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pillory, Public Humiliation, Punishment, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 10:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Creighton get's caught and punished in a sleepy little town.





	Unsympathetic

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs to my friends who inspire me. Enjoy as I yet again destroy Creighton's fuckhole!

They’d stripped him of everything. His weapons, his rings, every one of them. All he’d been left with was the shirt on his back, for what little good it was worth, and they’d only done so because they knew how the weight of it would turn from shield to sword in the heat of the sun. Hissing and clawing, they’d dragged Creighton to the pillory and locked him there. It had taken three men to fight him into the position, and even then they were drenched in sweat when the job was done, cursing under their breath.

“Murderer.”

One of them grabbed him by the jaw and spat the word into his face, globs of saliva catching on his eyelashes. He did not blink as he watched the man pull back, sneering at him, to retrieve a sign with much the same sentiment scrawled fresh across it in white paint. What an innocent land this was, to have never punished a killer before. They hung the heavy rope across the back of his neck, forcing another weight on his shoulders, so that it danged down before his chest, marking him as his mask had back in Mirrah. Then they stepped away, allowing a balding man in modest robes step up on the wooden podium beside him and read his crimes.

He didn’t listen. It wasn’t interesting; he knew what he had done. He and Pate, really, though Pate had hardly touched a single one of their victims. Pate was smart like that, and dandy. Didn’t like to get his own hands dirty. Creighton made fun of him for it, at first, but it had quickly lost its novelty because Pate never took offense. In fact, Pate never took offense at anything. That was what smart people were like, Creighton knew, uncaring of what others thought of them. They were all convinced the world revolved at their order. If it had been anyone but Pate, Creighton would have laughed in their face, should they still manage to be alive after disrespecting him, but Pate was different, because for Pate it was true. He’d never met anyone like that man, and he never would again. Pate was special. Pate took care of him, and, he was told, he needed it, badly.

Creighton did not think he had ever been human. Not properly. He’d lived among them, been gat and born among them, but he was not like them. His face, before he had ruined it, looked human. He had stared at it many times as a child, in reflections on windows and puddles of piss in the streets, to see if he really did look as he was told. He had two eyes, a nose, a mouth. If he tried he could change his expression to match those around him easily, the way he saw them doing. It was not as if he did not feel things, exactly, but that they were the wrong things, at the wrong times.

Pate was in the crowd. Despite his disguise Creighton picked him out almost immediately, a singular calm face amidst the screaming masses. It was not a relief to see him, because Creighton had never doubted he would come. There was a rule between them to never call for one another when in a pinch, and so implicate the other party, so Creighton was forced to merely glare at him from his hunched position, hands curling into light fists. It wasn’t like Pate could do much with so many around as is, but Creighton needed someone to focus his anger on, and he only knew of one target. For his part, Pate seemed rather unimpressed, shaking his head minutely to indicate that indeed, no, he could not make any move to rescue his partner at this time.

These townsfolk were poor, and didn’t have food to waste, so instead of tomatoes they threw rocks. Whoever he had taken out must have been popular. Most of them missed, flying to his side and bouncing off the pillory, but the people were not afraid to come in close, hollering in his face, pelting his sides and legs. he could hardly feel it thought his chainmail, unflinching as he stood there, even when a rock managed to catch the exposed skin of his face through the mask, so close to his eye that it was a miracle he wasn’t blinded, drawing blood. He didn’t even look at them, gaze trained on Pate, the smug bastard, standing with his arms crossed and simply observing as Creighton was abused.

“Monster!”

Someone came very close, almost touching him.

“Don’t you even care what you’ve done?”

He slid his eyes up to meet the man. Some peasant, drab and plain, face doughy and riddled with pocks and dirt. Nothing of note, no sense of threat, of meaning. Creighton looked at him and saw nothing.

The man must have seen it, because he backed off immediately, the rage in his face changing to almost confusion. Those not too caught up in the rush of fury noticed, and they too began to hover around him, securitizing, as if he were still a potential threat chained up like this.

“Say something, you bastard!”

Another rock glanced off the side of his helmet, ringing across his skull. He’d been placed in the middle of what served as the village’s square, edged by barely a handful of houses and shops. The crowd had been mostly in front during his sentencing, but now the group eyeing him began to circle Creighton like vultures, apprehensive of their still kicking meat, and that set his defenses high. He did not like having people behind him under normal circumstances, but now he could not move to protect his blind spots even had he wanted. He tried to futilely look over his shoulder, barely able to see what was at his side through his matted hair.

“Killer!”

“Death is too good for you!”

Creighton looked back at Pate, but the man seemed unconcerned, watching with the barest sign of interest as several people just out of Creighton’s range of vision moved in closer. He could feel them, even through the sensory hell of the screaming crowd, every part of him keyed into that strange side of humanity able to detect others of its kind without sight, sound, or touch. His spine was already beginning to ache, and as he tensed harder thusly the discomfort increased. The men could reach out and touch him now but they were just standing there, sizing him up.

He didn’t like it.

“You’re not even human.”

The voice was close, so close Creighton was surprised he couldn’t feel the man’s breath on his neck. His reaction was instantaneous, trained from a lifetime in the streets. With a swift, instinctive movement Creighton struck out with his right leg, the flat of his sandal connecting perfectly across the man’s kneecap and cracking the bone, inverting it. The man tumbled back with a cry and the chaos around him suddenly all coordinated in one single attack.

The rest who had been circling him converged, grabbing his legs, his back, holding him like he was going to get up and run at any second. More joined them, holding whatever they could to just have a piece of the action, and then there were women, screaming at him with more ferocity than any wild beast, helping the man he’d hit stand with their support, dragging him out of the eye of the storm to find a spot where they could assess the damage.

“Get off me!”

Creighton struggled, hating the touches, making a fair effort despite the monumental force fighting against him. Someone grabbed at his helmet and ripped it off, taking a good handful of hair with it, someone else pulling his hood back so they could unclasp his mask. Unable to recoil but certainly trying, Creighton bellowed at them, snapping his jaws at their fat little fingers. It was so cold in the open. Creighton’s face was a web of scars, deep wells in his face, pulling back what little was left of his lips and exposing his teeth to the air in a permanent grimace. People normally reacted to the sight of it, gasping, retching, but everyone was so furiously emboldened now that there was little more than jeering confirmation that his hideous outsides reflected what they knew lay within. Someone ran their finger across the divot in the bridge of his nose, pressing too hard and sending a flare of pain from the old wound out through his cheeks.

His breath burned wildly in his throat, spittle bubbling between his teeth and down his chin. He couldn’t move his head much, not without hurting himself, but every time a finger came too close he snapped his jaws together loudly. As always, everyone was his enemy, and his world was violence. Someone pushed past all the others to get a good, firm, bruising grip on his hips and held him there, preventing him from raising his legs high enough to kick anyone with more than a child’s force.

“Gerroff!”

A hand grabbed his hair and shook his head around until his brain ached in its pan, his neck chafing against the roughly cut wood. When they stopped it took him a moment to register the heat running down his left brow was blood.

“This is what you get! This is what you get, mongrel!”

Pate called him that, sometimes. He tried to peer through the forest of legs to find him, but it was impossible to make anything out in the jumble of bodies and sound.

“Give it to him!”

He didn’t wonder about what they meant. He didn’t have to - more hands than he could count were lifting up his mail skirts to find the softer fabrics underneath, too clumsy to even attempt properly removing his braies and instead tearing the linens apart. Creighton had been here before, bent and pawed at, but never so successfully by anyone other than his travelling companion, not in a very long time at least. He had a vague sense of what they were seeing, from Pate’s persistent monologuing; the way his skin had grown pale and lifeless from years kept wrapped in chain, the scars that crossed his thighs he could not remember getting, the way the straps of his chausses pressed attractive dimples into his tight buttocks. No one was supposed to see this except him, Creighton remembered suddenly, and with that memory he thrashed back again and, while not as satisfying as the first blow, managed to properly crush someone’s toes beneath his heel.

It didn’t really help. He couldn’t tell amidst the violence if the man he’d struck reacted. He fought without direction, but the hands against him at every angle rocked him in ways he could not contend with. If the throng could not move the pillory’s thick housing, hos own struggles would do no better. A couple bodies knelt beside his exposed back and wrapped their arms around his thighs, digging their heels into his sandaled feet. The mail protected against precision, blades, not compression, and it hurt sharply.

Creighton considered calling out for Pate. This was something he was never supposed to do, and never had done, due to his pride as much as obedience, but here he was stripped of the necessity for both and the feral creature that he had been before was shaking off the collar Pate had fashioned for it. When he tried to speak, however, all that he managed was a guttural sound of rage before someone bravely struck their thumb between his teeth. Despite the extensive damage that had been done to his face along the years, Creighton’s jaw was still in very good condition. He was not used to eating by moral means, and therefore savored what he had, and sucked the marrow from the bones of corpses in the street when he could find nothing else. His teeth were strong.

He bit down, gratified by the crunch of capillaries even though the man’s thick leather glove. But the finger did not pull away, and instead another wriggled in on the other side of his mouth, and another, until Creighton could no longer muster the power to bite down in any meaningful way. His scars stretched white and burned as though they had torn anew. As they pried his jaw open he glared through blood and hair, trying to make out the faces of the men he would later kill, pushing uselessly at their digits with his tongue as if it mattered. Instead someone else grabbed it, pinching the slippery muscle between his thumb and forefinger so tightly Creighton could not retract it, laughing at him, somewhere above. He screamed, pure in his fury and pain, and as he did so the men at his rear pawed his bare skin.

Hot hands pried him apart to peer at him. Not shy of his nakedness, Creighton was still incensed, for this too was a specific view that belonged to someone else. He didn’t value Pate’s ownership of him, but he respected it, as he respected all solid facts of the earth. If a thing were true, then it remained so regardless of the wants of man. Rivers flowed downhill, dead men turned to dust in time, and he belonged to Pate. A long strand of drool that hung down from his chin broke when he shook his head, trying to close his mouth. Someone pushed a finger against his hole, dry, gloved in rough wool.

“What a disgusting creature.”

“Make him pay!”

The finger pushed inside. It hurt, but not too badly. It was the concept of these men, these simple humans, taking airs with him that made Creighton roar, chewing at the hands in his mouth. Every one of them was brittle, and if freed he could snap them to pieces with his bare hands, but he was not free, and it felt wrong. He could do nothing about it though, flailing till he’d bruised himself more than those restraining him had. The man was not gentle with him, pushing his finger to the knuckle and feeling him out. Creighton bucked his hips, trying to dislodge him and only succeeding in furthering the man’s reach, snarling through the fingers between his teeth. The man who’d grabbed his tongue released it finally, sore and tingling, only to run his dirty fingers across the top of it, into his throat. Creighton might have gagged, had he the sense to. He refocused his eyes on the smile above him, those short teeth in a straight row behind his lips, flat and yellow like a cow’s, like prey. But Creighton was the one preyed upon, taking him back until the man couldn’t fit any more of his hand into his mouth, smoothing along the grooves of his throat.

At his behind the other offender pushed in a second finger and now the burn was potent, his dryness chafing. Creighton tensed around him and it hurt worse but he was glad for it, because had it felt good he might have lost something of himself. He was callously handled, thrust into haphazardly as if the man had never done this before, digging him out rather than working him open. Creighton’s toes squirmed where they were pinned as he tried to pull away, clawed at from the inside out. He was clean, always, undead and therefore without need for food and drink, and he wished he wasn’t because filth often deterred those who lived in little towns like this, who thought themselves above it. A part of him knew better, though, because he had seen so many times the women left in gutters, reeking and bloodied, taken into alleyways by rich men all the same.

The man with the smile took his cock out of his trousers. Torn between escaping the pain behind him and engaging the new threat before, Creighton became even less human. The blood from his hairline had stopped running quickly, but now it had dried and flaked of it peeled off and caught on his eyelashes, making him wince and his eye grow wet. The man was not wholly hard yet, his ruddy dick flopping lightly in his hand as he raised it towards Creighton amusedly. Sweat had slicked his dark pubic hair down across the shaft some, like the unruly mane of a beast. Creighton tried to lunge forth and bite it, gnashing his teeth as best he could, and everyone laughed and yelled as if he were acting exactly as they’d like. The fingers inside his ass crooked down and dragged across the good place there, behind his own flaccid cock, and he did gag now as his own spittle sucked down the wrong pipe when he inhaled forcefully.

“You’re not human,” someone said again, almost reassuringly, and then the man in front pressed his dick between Creighton’s quivering teeth, trying so hard to cleave him a eunuch, and laid upon his tongue heavily. He could not smell it, but it tasted as he would expect; unwanted, foreign. Trying to pull his tongue back was useless, because it was firmly rooted in his maw and had nowhere to go, but he tried anyways, nearly swallowing it in the process. Undeterred, the man thrust his hips forward in little ruts, taking care not to run himself along Creighton’s waiting teeth, a hand coming to tangle in his greasy hair. He didn’t have to hold Creighton still, the harsh lock of the pillory doing that well enough already, but the way he tugged with authority made Creighton’s blood boil.

“I’ll kill you,” he slobbered out, nothing more than guttural gargling through the many obstructions, wet and ugly, “I’ll kill you all.”

The fingers in his ass spread as wide apart as they could, the pain of it so sharp and sudden that his eyes rolled in their sockets, wild.

“What a hideous sight,” said someone, perhaps the man fingering him open, “pink, like you want it.”

Creighton could not imagine what that meant. After a few strained moments admiring his insides, the man withdrew completely. The burn didn’t cease, though the anguish lessoned, and were he not held up Creighton would have sagged at the relief, attempting to curl in on himself defensively. Instead he was hoisted up higher, so everyone could see his reddened hole as the man between his legs knelt in and spat. He missed the first time, Creighton’s flesh twitching as a hot wet glob landed on his left buttock, but then he tried again and this time was close enough, hitting only an inch or two above his asshole. Creighton knew it was a pitiful excuse for slickening, that the man was more likely than not to rub his own cock to blisters in the process, but was also experienced enough with horror to know it likely wouldn’t stop him. However, the wicked mood caught on. Excited by the chaos, by watching his defilement, other members of the crowd, still pawing at him, holding him apart, leaned in curiously until one of them added his own contribution, hacking spit near perfect on the mark.

“Scum!”

The man probed at him again, this time with the glove off, allowing Creighton to feel the flat pad of his thumb as it pried his hole open to smear some of the saliva down inside him. A third person spat as well, then another.

“Filth!”

“Creature!”

Shaking his head till the wood left splinters in his neck, Creighton bellowed unintelligibly at them all, eyes bulging. The cock in his mouth was now fully hard, thrusting, despite his lack of ability to give suction or comfort to it, just a wet tongue and a quivering throat. The spittle in his ass soothed the burn some but he hated it, hated it more than anything else they had done so far, because now there was so many of them putting themselves inside in in their own way, and it was not their right. He wanted to tear them apart but he couldn’t, so he tore at himself instead, raking his fingers against his own palms, skin saved only by the thick gloves he still wore under his mail. He swung his hips from side to side, as best he could while held, curled his toes, tried to pull himself down with all the strength inside him till his stomach was aching and if he’d had any food inside him he would have produced it now, a nice gift for the man with his dick in Creighton’s mouth, but all he mustered up was more drool and more screaming that was less man than beast. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, snot dripping from his ruin of a nose. Hideous, furious. He was not afraid. There wasn’t any room for that in his heart.

It took him by surprise when the first cockhead pressed hot and heavy against his ass. He was wriggling so fiercely it took everyone a moment to get him into a good position for it, and when he truly understood what he was feeling prodding against his hole it only urged him into further mania, but eventually they did and without a moments pause the man pushed and pushed until Creighton could no longer fight him and he was inside. It hurt like a fist in a wound and he had no sound with which to express it. The bastard had eased his own passage enough to bottom out quickly, a hand patting his back as though he was to be praised. Creighton ached, everywhere.

“Tha’s right!”

“Fuck!”

There was no finesse to the assault. The man bent over Creighton and rutted him like a dog, hard and quick. Creighton listened to the jingle of his own chain mail as it swung, playing an uneven rhythm so unlike that which Pate crafted. He wanted to kick and fight back but the pain of each thrust winded him and he was so miserably aware of his failing muscles and it hurt, hurt in a way he did not have the scars to remember or the weapons to cope with. As the man behind picked up pace, the one in front did too, emboldened by Creighton’s helplessness, humping against his limp tongue. His hips began to knock against Creighton’s face, against his teeth and nose, not as harsh as a fist but painful all the same.

There were two instincts at war within him; one that told him to fight till he collapsed dead, and another that said there was no way out but through. Practicality spoke to the reaction of freezing, going limp, letting his muscles relax and blanking out the pain. He had fallen back on this response before, when there was no other choice, imprisoned for information, tortured as a criminal, locked away on death row for what he had done in Mirrah, but it had been a very long time since then. The former instinct had done him better in recent decades, because even if he died he would awaken with his pride intact, knowing well he had never succumbed to weakness, had left his attacker with a lasting impression of his blade upon their bones. When you died from your wounds you awoke clean and rested, but the scars he’d wrought upon them would heal, painful and ugly, and would be there when whatever undead scum came back again and again, marking them forever with his wrath.

He was too angry to let go, though, too long accustomed to being the victor. Since Pate had come along, especially, Creighton had grown slow and complacent with success, fed and fattened on Pate’s praise like a prized bull hound, and so he struggled long past what his muscles could support, making everything worse for himself because he could. Pate had left other lasting impressions upon his body as well, for even as he agonized over the cock sliding rough and hungry in his ass, some well-trained part of him drew tight around it, swelling and pressing. Through the pain he honestly did not feel it until finally, horribly, the man came, hugging Creighton’s hips to his so that every drop of his filthy cum burned inside him. Creighton croaked hoarsely, still muffled behind the cock which thrust away unhindered, perhaps only slow from the significant lack of stimulation his mouth provided.

When he pulled out the yelling had grown quieter, though not silent, as other men pushed in to look. The process of extracting himself pulled on Creighton’s abused insides, prompting someone to poke his stretched hole where it clung to the man’s cock and laugh.

“The beast wants to keep you close!”

Yanking himself back and out from Creighton’s ass, the man said, “He’s tight as a drum.”

He felt raw, and hollow. His ass flexed involuntarily, trying to reform itself after being so unnaturally stretched. The man’s jism was boiling inside him like poison. He wanted it out, tried to push it out, but it had been a while since those muscles had been used in such a way and he was not able to succeed before another man shoved his way through the throng to get behind him, rubbing the fat head of his cock between his buttocks. Creighton wished they would have just beat him to death.

A thick spurt of precum soured his tongue. Creighton growled, a sound that came out slobbery, wearing his sandals out as he scraped at the podium floor, trying to escape as the next man pushed against his hole. It was too big, bigger than the last, or maybe that was just the pain of his already aching ass exaggerating things, and he clenched hard in an attempt to stop him but he was already bullying his way past the ring of muscle at his rim. It shouldn’t have felt good for either of them, but his previous violation left him slick with cum and worn to weakness, and the man managed to pop his dick head in soon enough with a triumphant grunt. It burned worse than before, the sting of a reopened wound.

“Likes it, does he?”

Someone reached between his legs and grabbed around Creighton’s balls, giving them a brief squeeze. Creighton bucked, choking out a warbled bark, a shock springing up his spine both painful and pleasurable. He was not really hard, not entirely, but as he was fondled, and the new cock slid into him all the way, the scorching pain inside of him held a solid core of something just barely beginning to take shape. Forgetting about the man fucking his face, Creighton tried to turn his head to the side and deny them their gloating, and received a yank on his scalp so harsh it made his brain rock.

“Hold still, idiot!”

It wasn’t even the man involved with him who said it, some bystander with his hand down his trousers watching with wet breath as the one thrusting closed his eyes with focus, stroking his shaft. Creighton curled his tongue back in an attempt to cease all contact but was unexpectedly bounced forwards onto it when the man behind him met his hips with a solid thump. He hacked furiously, made more so when one of the hands still firmly wedged between his teeth stroked across his straining cheek mockingly. The new man pumped his hips slower, using his thumbs to hold Creighton’s ass apart and watch the way he was grown red and wide around him. Every time he pulled out Creighton’s hole clung to him tight, so he could feel every vein, every fold of skin scraping along inside, and when he pushed back in the resistance was like barely lubed rubber. It didn’t stop him and he pushed and pushed and pushed.

Creighton’s legs had grown so heavy with exhausted from the fight that if he were not held by the men as his thighs he would have collapsed, only kept upright by the cock he was skewered upon. In front, the man grasped Creighton on both sides of his head and thrust with wild abandon, hot spunk catching him by surprise and nearly choking him when it hit the back of his throat. He no longer had the strength to bite down but he gnawed at the hands that restrained him, wanting less to maim and more to simply close his mouth and be done with it. Instead he was rewarded with a shuddering buck of the hips so hard that when the man’s pubic ridge smacked his nose hard enough to crack it, and as he pumped the last of his load down Creighton’s unresisting throat, a spurt of blood erupted down his face.

The man jumped back, displeased by the mess despite how Creighton’s saliva had already muddied his clothing, and without hands covering his ears Creighton could really hear the sounds from behind him now, the chafe of skin against skin, the way they blathered about how his supposed eagerness to accept them inside him was disgusting. Every now and then the man landed a particularly deep thrust and his balls slapped Creighton’s, electricity riding all the way up his back each time. The hands holding his mouth open finally released him and Creighton’s head dropped like a rock, a low groan shaking out of him as he worked his sore jaw closed. He was being fully pounded now, each thrust a punch to the gut.

Though he had barely been wounded there, his face was a mask of horror, dripping with blood and drool and snot and tears, a pink shining mass crossed with scars, grimacing. Looking at no one in particular, he tried to scream again and could not, too ragged to produce more than a harsh whining.

“Gonna kill you all,” he ground out, growing high in pitch as the man slammed into his prostate and came, filling him more and more, “I’ll gut you gullet to groin, I will.”

He endured, poorly, as the man pumped through his orgasm, twitching inside him. When he pulled out Creighton was filled again almost immediately, this time accompanied by a wet squelch. There was already too much cum in his belly, too much left behind by these disgusting faceless people. Taking advantage of the ease of his well lubricated hole, the third rapist needed not worry about the skin of his cock and abused him freely. Creighton growled lowly but could hardly move himself if he wanted, so tired. People were running their hands under his waist, across his stomach, up his chest, trying to finger his skin through the kinks of his chain mail. He could barely feel it, protected still by layers of padded linens, but he knew what they wanted and he dreamt of severing their hands at the wrist.

The places on his body the pillory held began to grow wet, and it took Creighton seeing the red puddles around his feet to realize that it was his own blood from the rubbing, wood flecks ground into his flesh. It hurt to open his mouth again but he couldn’t breathe with it closed, nose clotting shut, and his frantic puffing left a foamy lather down his chin. His breath was coming in soft wheezes, almost whines, almost pathetic, but rather than find embarrassment in in Creighton only let the thing he’d been reduced to claw deep into his mind, a memory he would keep forever, a mistake to learn from long after everyone here was dead. Now, with the smoothness of movement, Creighton was tortured by the pleasurable drag against his every nerve inside, inflamed from the rough treatment, desperate to be soothed. He twitched away, but the pressure was inescapable, following him everywhere and refusing to leave his tender places.

When the third man came it was too much, flooding him, and his body tried to push it back out but he remained there, plugging Creighton shut, letting him gasp and suffer with it. Another cock pushed against his cheek and he could only manage a small snap at it, slapped for it before the dick continued to rub against his wet skin. Another one pushed into his ass as soon as it was vacated, again too big, again too hard, too hungry. He clawed at whatever of the wood he could reach, trying to take his imprisonment into his own hands so as to have some illusion of control.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it.” He was barely intelligible, vacant.

The man inside him pressed their hips flush and gyrated slowly, grinding his cock into Creighton’s bowels. He was so full, unbearably so. “He’s squeezing me so tightly! He definitely wants it,” said the man, but it was all Creighton could do not to scream and scream until his throat bled.

It was hours before they all finished with him. the sun set, and one by one the hands departed, and there he lay, legs long having given out, hanged like a corpse from his shoulders in the pillory’s cruel arms. When Pate came for him Creighton was barely conscious, unmoving. He did not react as Pate pulled his face up to check for signs of life, looking far too bored for someone committing a hanging offense. Satisfied that Creighton was indeed breathing, and looking at him with focus in his gaze, Pate dropped him and proceeded to pick the lock on the pillory side with deft fingers. He had to bodily hoist Creighton up from the device, neither of them saying a thing as they half stumbled from the village square and into the woods, not until they had reached some nook Pate had carved out in between the trees and Creighton was unceremoniously dumped to the cold grass.

He wasn’t mad, though. It felt so good to lie flat.

“Took you long enough,” Creighton said, barely able to form the words.

Pate smiled wanly at him, kneeling down with the ginger grace he effortlessly exuded, and pulled Creighton’s head up into his lap.

“Poor, poor thing,” he said, stroking Creighton’s cum slicked hair from his forehead, “poor Creighton.”

Creighton looked at him dully.

“Where were you, then, prick?”

Pate hummed.

“Did you leave any?”

“Hm?”

Pate was pulling up Creighton’s skirts, not really paying attention. Creighton batted his hands away, trying to sit up.

“Did you leave any of them stinkin’ bastards for me to kill myself?”

“Oh,” said Pate, disinterested, still trying to get under Creighton’s clothes, “I didn’t kill anyone.”

He didn’t even blink when Creighton’s hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed.

“Whaddaya mean, you didn’t’…?”

He was betrayed. Creighton understood that Pate was not as strong as he was. If he could not best the crowd, then Pate certainly could not. Between the two of them though Pate was the one with the tongue, and the brain. He had slit more throats without making a sound than Creighton had in his entire criminal career. Creighton knew this well, because while Pate was not prone to bragging he was prone to showing off, and he was most amorous after a kill. Yet with all his powers, with all his strengths, he was here knowing, having born witness to, the injustices Creighton had been served and he had done nothing.

“You fuckin’-!”

“Don’t be childish, Creighton.”

Pate pushed his hands away like they were nothing, which was perhaps a fair assessment given how weakened he had been left, but it only made Creighton more angry.

“You brought this on yourself. I would have liked to have spared you the consequences of your actions, but I don’t see what exactly you expected from me with all that turmoil. You caused quite the ruckus, you know.”

Of course he knew. Creighton again tried to rise, so he could throttle Pate properly, and Pate tipped him off his lap, scooting in between his legs.

“I oughta-!”

“Let’s assess the damage, shall we?”

Creighton kicked at him, legs like lead.

“No! Piss off! How can you just-!”

Pate shot him a sharp look.

“You should be grateful I came for you at all. Do you have any idea how much danger I was putting myself in by deigning to rescue you from your own foolishness?”

“I-!”

“I don’t care what you have to say for yourself, Creighton, I’ve heard it all before.”

Then his tone softened, though it did not reach his eyes.

“Now, you’ve suffered enough. Don’t make me tie you up again just to give you a proper examination.”

Confused and petulant, Creighton kicked at him again, though this time there was no force behind it.

“Don’t want one.”

“Oh?” said Pate, digging in his skirts anyways, “so you want the mess they left you with?”

He didn’t, but he wasn’t going to say that. Instead he simply lay there like dead flesh as Pate manhandled him into a better position, back flat and legs apart. As soon as he could see it he stuck his finger against Creighton’s asshole, whistling lowly. Creighton flinched.

“Don’t.”

“You’re so red and swollen,” Pate said, ignoring him, “you look like a budding rose.”

Not having anything to respond with, Creighton shifted uncomfortably. The grass was digging into his neck, itching in his half closed scabs. Pate put both thumbs to the sides of Creighton’s hole and pulled it apart. He’d been leaking for hours but the extra attention, as well as their short run, had helped move the last of the crusted cum left inside him lower and as he opened up a final few spurts of it wet the grass. Pate sneered and Creighton felt oddly self-conscious, something he was unused to. Not liking it, he turned away.

“I want my mask.”

“You’ll have it,” said Pate, “I did that for you as well. I’ll be expecting a thank you. First, I’m cleaning you off.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You’re filthy. You stink like other men. I won’t abide it.”

He massaged at Creighton’s sore hole a few more times, coaxing a bit more cum from within. Creighton let him, even when his fingers pinched at the raw flesh a little too teasingly, even when he felt himself wink whorishly at the touch. Pate hummed lightly.

“You didn’t finish once, yourself, did you?”

Creighton said nothing, because he didn’t have to. Pate already knew everything.

“Good boy.”

His erection had long waned, but the way Pate was stirring against him so lightly after so much torment was sending blood back to his groin. Pate spread two fingers around Creighton’s hole and rubbed the rim tenderly.

“I suppose I should give you some reward for that, even if the entire debacle was your fault to begin with.”

Creighton couldn’t remember why it was his fault, but he couldn’t remember much these days. He knew what a reward meant, though, and he didn’t want it.

“No,” he said lowly, “Pate, don’t.”

Pate laughed at him.

“Don’t be stupid, darling, I wouldn’t want to put my cock anywhere near you now, not with other men’s leavings still gumming up your thighs.”

Still toying with Creighton’s ass with one hand, he removed the glove from his other with his teeth, taking a firm grip at the base of Creighton’s limp dick. Creighton jumped, still refusing to look at him.

“I don’t want it.”

“Shh.”

Easily, Pate stroked him to erectness, all the while tracing his fingers around his asshole just hard enough to sting his hypersensitive nerves. He could have put up more a fight, would have, normally, but he felt shackled to the earth with exhaustion. Unlike the blunt way in which cock after cock had forced their way inside him, Pate was teasingly gentle, letting just one or two digits do all the work necessary. While he worked his palm up and down Creighton’s shaft with quick, loose wrist movements, his fingers stroked the crack of Creighton’s ass, twisting across his puffy hole when they met, every now and then dipping just barely inside to stroke the rim. He was so swollen he’d doubled in tightness – Pate said this flatly, a hint of a smile on his face. Creighton closed his eyes and did not think.

“You were very loud under them, you know.”

He didn’t understand a moment, and laid unmoving.

“Normally when I have you you’re like this, dead as a doornail. Did you enjoy it?”

A bead of anger buzzed in Creighton’s throat again.

“No. you know I wouldn’t!”

Pate wasn’t looking at his face, complacently focused on his work as he wriggled a finger inside to massage Creighton’s prostate, making his hips weakly rock.

“You’ve never hollered like that for me,” he said, flicking his thumb across the head of Creighton’s dick with a practiced motion that had it pulsing in his hand, “I only bring it up because I can understand if you need others to satisfy you, at times.”

“No,” Creighton said, but he was moaning too and it came out long and pathetic. Pate thrust his finger in and out of Creighton’s ass carefully, ensuring he felt mostly pleasure despite everything.

“If you need me to arrange it, I can have others mount you again,” Pate continued, “under my supervision of course. To do it so dangerously more than once would be very unwise.”

“I don’t!” he insisted, throwing an arm over his face to block out the sight of Pate between his legs, “I hated it!”

When he said that Pate pushed in two fingers very suddenly, prodding directly into his prostate and making Creighton’s back bow out as he came. A thick stream of his own jism poured out across his belly and Pate worked him through it the whole time, perfect and gentle and smiling until he was done. As Creighton lay there, sweating and shaking, Pate leaned across him until they were face to face, softly moving his arm out of the way, and leaned down to press a kiss to Creighton’s puckered cheek.

“Then don’t do it again,” he whispered.

Creighton did not remember what he had done, not exactly, but he knew he would obey those words or die trying.

And that he hated most of all.

Much later, when Creighton was asleep, Pate sat beside him and admired his destroyed face. He would have liked to have been there for each wound as they came, seen the damage done, nursed the bloody lesion to scar. The more he tended to his pet, the more he received in return, after all. They’d have to bathe Creighton somewhere, tomorrow, when he was able enough to do it for himself because God knew Pate wasn’t going to carry him about for another minute if he could avoid it. He was tired himself, after all, having spent much of the day dealing with the result of Creighton’s misstep. The man still smelled like sex and blood, a scent that sang to him as he lay down beside his companion to rest, and for a moment Pate considered bringing himself off as he had Creighton, stirring slightly within his trousers, but ultimately decided against it. After all, he’d already had his fill earlier, amidst the crowd of townsfolk cheering him on like he was one of them, too blinded by rage and spent by the time the fifth or so had finished inside Creighton’s ass to recognize his face.

Creighton was warm at his back, like an open wound. Pate slept with a smile.


End file.
